


Just Grateful for the Opportunity

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watching, but like openly watching not really voyeurism, delayed gratification, like really really delayed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 20:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11215488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: Connor shrugs.  “Itiskind of like media, actually.  You work out what they want to hear and give them just enough of it that you get to keep the rest to yourself.”  He grins then, sudden and kind of sly.  “I hear some teams are really into the innocent young captain thing.  I've been practicing, you wanna see?”Mitch doesn’t want toparticipatein the Captain’s Forfeit or anything.  He’s just being a good friend.





	Just Grateful for the Opportunity

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the same universe as Taking One For The Team, but has no crossover of characters and is set earlier in the season, after the first game between the Leafs and the Oilers on November 1st. You don’t have to read the other fic to read this one, but if you like this you should check that one out too! If you haven’t read that one, all you need to know is that the captain’s forfeit is a formal-but-not-league-official setup whereby the winning team gets to fuck the captain of the losing team immediately after a regular season game. If you *have* read that one, you’ll notice the Leafs have different internal rules about the forfeit to the Pens and Flyers! Specifics vary between teams. It's a whole thing.
> 
> One day I will finish a fic that actually has a plot but it is not this day. And yes, I totally wrote Ben Smith and Roman Polack out because, even though they qualified in this game under the Leafs’ forfeit rules, I didn't want to write porn about them, so sue me :P
> 
> Finally, this is for my hockey group chat and the great Hot Davo Crisis of mid-2017. RIP.

Mitch is still taking his socks off when he realizes the nearby conversation has already turned to the Oilers’ forfeit. To _Connor’s_ forfeit, actually. The buzz of winning drains out of him abruptly and something swooping and squeamish replaces it, like the feeling right after jumping off a cliff. Not that Mitch has ever jumped off a cliff, but if he had he thinks it would probably feel kind of like this.

“Eh,” Roman’s saying with a shrug, oblivious to the way Mitch’s insides are lurching. “I’ll pass this time. Nineteen’s, ah. A bit young for me.” He grins. “No judgement, Marty.”

Matt throws a rolled up ball of sock tape at him.

“Yeah, teenage fumbling’s not really my thing,” Ben agrees, shouldering his bag. “You boys have fun, though.”

Fun. _Jesus_. Mitch turns that over in the shower, the totally casual chirping, like what they’re talking about is as ordinary as a family skate or something. He makes up his mind under the water, blinking soap out of his eyes and trying not to think too hard about the specifics, then he gets dressed back in his suit, sits back down in his stall and tells Auston he'd better get a ride home with someone else. 

“I’m staying,” he says firmly.

Auston just shrugs and leaves with the rest of the guys who didn’t score tonight (and aren’t going to, Mitch’s brain supplies traitorously). Nobody notices Mitch hasn't gone with them until the only people left in the room are him and the remaining point scorers, all in sweats and t-shirts and looking at him curiously. Mitch feels kind of overdressed. He wonders if he should take his tie off.

“You know the rules, kid,” says Naz. “No point, no postgame. Bang your childhood sweetheart on your own time.”

“That’s not,” Mitch splutters. “Oh my god, shut up.”

Mo appears next to them, frowning. He leans into Naz's space and squints at his chest until Naz swats him away.

“What?”

“I’m looking for your A,” Mo says lightly. “I mean obviously you must have one now, since you’re calling the shots.”

“It’s the rules!” Naz exclaims, doing his best outraged indignation face; it doesn’t work any better on Mo than it does on refs. He makes a disgusted noise and turns away as Mo takes a seat next to Mitch in Auston’s empty stall.

“He’s not wrong, though,” he says. “You do know the rules.”

Mitch frowns down at his hands, twisting together restlessly. He hadn’t even realized he was doing that. He tries to work out how to explain what he’s feeling without sounding like a fucking kid, and he can’t, so instead he just says: “Connor’s my friend.” Mo gives him a shrewd look.

“Your _friend_ , huh?”

“What?” Mitch makes a face. “Yes, my friend.”

“Okay, just checking,” says Mo, holding up his hands. “He talked about you a lot at the World Cup, that's all.” Well, of course he did, Mitch thinks. He knew Mitch and Mo were going to be teammates and Connor was probably talking him up because he’s a good person. “It’d be fine if he was… _you_ know.” Mo says, and Mitch grimaces at him, which feels like the only response _that_ comment deserves.

Mo looks as if he’s trying to work something out. After a beat, he says, “So you two never…”

Mitch blushes. “No!” 

That sort of thing is _explicitly banned_ in juniors. Well, not sex in general, as far as he knows, but forfeiting. He’d had an absolutely mortifying meeting with coach about it when he first made captain, lots of well-meaning but uncomfortable lecturing about peer pressure and hazing and _if anyone tries to persuade you, son, you come tell me about it_. Ugh.

Mitch didn’t really know what to think, after all that. He heard rumours about the captain’s forfeit in the adult leagues all through juniors, but it was mostly sniggering innuendo; nobody actually knew any details even if they said they did. Guys who’d actually made it to the show for real didn’t talk about it with outsiders, even old friends. He’d actually asked Davo about it, just once, and he’d gone all quiet and said it wasn’t like how they made it sound in the O, but he couldn’t talk about it. Ryan wouldn’t even tell Dylan, his own _brother_ , except to reassure him that if somehow either of them ever ended up captaining a team there were “protocols” to deal with that. There are a lot of brothers in the NHL. Yikes.

Anyway, the point is Mitch has had, like, _sex_ , sure, and even slightly weird hockey handjobs and whatever, because who hasn't. But not forfeit style and definitely not with Davo. He's never even heard rumours about squeaky clean Connor McJesus doing anything like that. 

That's kind of why he's worried.

“Okay.” Mo, who never really seems awkward about anything, looks a little awkward now. “But you know we’re gonna…”

Mitch rolls his eyes. “Duh,” he says. Just because he’s opted not to participate so far this year doesn’t mean he’s totally ignorant about what goes on. Uncle Leo laid out all the rules for the rookies at the beginning of the season, which was almost as embarrassing as that talk with coach, but it clarified a few things. And Mitch isn’t a _prude_ ; he doesn’t, like, _disapprove_ or anything. He just…he thinks you probably have to work up to fucking strangers you used to idolise a few short months ago in front of all your new pro teammates, not just leap into it after your second ever NHL game (no matter how hot Patrice Bergeron is). And he’s worried about Connor _specifically_.

Sure, yeah, okay, watching will probably be kind of _weird_. But it’s for important friendship reasons, so it’s fine.

“Mitchy, work with me here,” says Mo, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What are you looking for, exactly?”

Mitch takes a deep breath. “He’s my _friend_ ,” he repeats slowly as if he’s talking to an idiot. Which, apparently, he kind of is. “I want to know he’s okay.”

Mo makes a face at him. “Mitch, come on. I'm here, Brownie's here, none of the other guys are assholes. Well, Naz is, but not _that_ kind of asshole. Nobody's going to make him do anything he doesn't want to.” Mitch just folds his arms. 

He does know all that, of course. He'd trust his team with his life. But he's not sure he'd trust _Connor_ with his own well-being, is the thing. He's never met anyone more stubbornly committed to being perfect at everything, half the time at his own expense. If he thinks the captain's forfeit is required of him as Connor McDavid, savior of the entire Oilers franchise, Next One and Hockey Jesus, then of course he's going to do it. But if he doesn't really want to or he's in over his head, Mitch is certain he'll be able to tell.

Besides, this is only the second time the Oilers have lost since they made Connor captain, and Mitch is pretty sure the fucking _Sabres_ won’t have been all that nice to him.

The feelings that brings up must play themselves out over his face, because Mo heaves a dramatic sigh. “Okay, fine, if you're going to spend all night freaking out about it, I’ll let you stay,” he says. Mitch sighs, relieved, but Mo holds up a finger. “ _But_ ,” he says, “let’s set some ground rules. No touching. No interrupting. No talking, if you can help it.” Mitch makes an indignant noise and Mo sticks a hand over his face, pushing him lightly back into the stall. “Shut up, I’m not finished. And if McDavid doesn’t want you watching, you fuck off, alright?”

Mitch presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows as obnoxiously as he can (which is pretty damn obnoxiously). Mo snorts.

“You can talk _now_ , you little shit.”

“Alright,” says Mitch. “Whatever you say.”

“Okay then.” Mo pats him on the knee. “You just stay right there and don't move. And when I say no touching, that includes yourself, got it?”

Mitch wrinkles his nose – he's _looking out for a friend_ , not trawling for, like, spank bank material, _god_ – but then there's a knock on the door and Mo gets up to answer it, so Mitch figures he's supposed to stop talking now.

Connor doesn't _seem_ uncomfortable when he walks in, but you know. Media training. He looks relaxed and freshly showered, in an Oilers hoodie and sweats, hands in his pockets like he's turned up to say hi to some buddies and not be, like, ritually humiliated by them or whatever.

“Hey,” Mo grins. “Good game.”

“If it was a good game you’d be in my locker room, not the other way round,” Connor gripes good naturedly. Then he catches sight of Mitch and falters to a stop. “Um,” he says, suddenly awkward. Well, more awkward than usual. “Hi?”

No talking, Mo said. Mitch says nothing, just folds his arms and frowns, flicking a significant look at Mo, who rolls his eyes.

Connor looks helplessly around at the other guys. “Am I missing something?” he says, with the air of somebody who is usually missing something and is starting to get paranoid about it. “Did you guys change your point scorer rule or something?”

“No,” says Matt, grinning. “You’ve just got a guardian angel.” He glances at Mitch, teasing and a little fond, and Mitch scowls. He does not, it turns out, like not being allowed to speak.

“Uh, what?” Connor looks nonplussed. His gaze darts between Mo and Brownie, the more familiar faces in the room. Mo sighs.

“Mitchy's having a mother hen moment,” he says dryly, dropping into a stall at random. “Wants to make sure we don't make you cry too much.” Mitch shoots him a furious look but Connor laughs, short and sharp.

“Oh. Is that on the schedule?”

“Play your cards right,” says Naz, lounging against the wall.

“He's just going to watch,” Mo explains, ignoring Naz. “It'll be like he isn't here at all. So.” He leans back in his seat, stretching, and in that movement his whole body language changes; he sprawls out lazily with his legs spread and smirks up at Connor and Mitch has never seen Mo look like that. It makes his face feel kind of hot. “You wanna get started or what?”

Connor flicks a quick glance at Mitch and then shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

Matt produces a couple of folded towels from somewhere and lays them down between Mo’s feet. It’s to make the floor a little softer on Connor’s knees, Mitch realizes with a small jolt. So this is actually happening. Shit. Okay, concentrate.

Mitch leans forward in his stall a little so he can see better, focusing on Connor's face. He looks kind of tense as he kneels down, now the actual action is about to begin, his shoulders a taut line under the hoodie, eyebrows drawn down into a frown. Mitch doesn't think it's just his normal focused expression, he's definitely _uncomfortable_.

Just as Mitch suspected, he sits back on his heels and huffs out a sigh.

“I can’t…” he says. Mitch feels vindicated until Connor turns his head and looks him right in the eye. “I can't with you glaring at me like that, Marns. It’s _weird_.”

Wait, what? Mitch is still struggling to process this when Mo leans forward on his elbows and gives him a pointed look. “You heard him, buddy,” he says cheerfully. “Fuck off.”

“No, it’s not…” Connor says quickly, and then blushes. “It’s fine, I just…” he looks up at Mo apologetically. “Could we have a moment, maybe? I promise it’ll be quick.”

Mo gives Mitch a very long-suffering look and then sighs. “Whatever, man. You’re the one with a flight out in the morning.”

Connor wipes his hands on his thighs and stands up, inclining his head. Everyone is staring at Mitch and it's so awkward, he can feel his face going red. He gets up, avoiding everyone's eyes, and follows Connor out of the room.

Connor glances up and down the corridor, which is empty but probably won't be for long, and then directs Mitch into the trainers' room a few doors down. Once inside, he puts both hands on Mitch's shoulders and steers him backwards across the room until the massage table hits him in the ass.

“Sit,” Connor says, frowning. “Explain.”

Mitch wrinkles his nose. He's not usually the sort of person to be sullen and silent when questioned, but there's just not really that much to say that Mo didn't already, even if he was making fun of him. It’s also possible embarrassment has just made him incapable of speaking ever again. Connor sighs.

“You already told me what to expect if we lost,” he says. Yeah, and hadn’t that been the most awkward text exchange of all time. Mitch shrugs, a little defensively.

“I just thought you might want to be prepared,” he says, hosting himself up to sit on the massage table so he doesn't have to look Connor in the eye while he's talking. When he does look, Connor's half smiling, exasperated but amused.

“Yeah, I know,” he says softly. “Thanks. But after that I wasn't really expecting you to be here and I uh.” He bites his lip, just a little bit. “I wasn't prepared for you.”

Now Mitch is blushing. Ugh, this is so fucking weird. He swings his feet a little, frowning down at them.

“Sorry. But just...you're my friend, and they're my _team_ , and I don't want to have to hate them for...for...” he screws his face up helplessly.

“Huh,” says Connor. “That’s, um. That’s very sweet, Marns.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I mean it,” he says, all wide-eyed and earnest. “I appreciate you looking out for me,” he says seriously, “but actually I’m fine.” He clears his throat. “I um...I want to do it.”

“Are you just saying that because—”

“No,” Connor cuts him off. “There’s no pressure. Actually I kind of had to bully the guys into letting me do it right away. The team, I mean.”

Mitch blinks at him.

“Ebs wanted to take over my forfeits for the first year since I’m so…” he presses his lips together. “Since I’m not that experienced. The other As too. They’re good guys; they look out for me. But I told them no. I said I’d be captain, this is part of it.”

And that, right there, is exactly what Mitch was afraid of. “You can’t--it’s not like doing more _media_ ,” he hisses. “You’re talking about letting people--” he can’t say “fuck you” to Connor’s face, he just _can’t_ \-- “...have their way with you,” he finishes lamely, and for fuck’s sake, how is _that_ better? He’s blushing so hard he feels like the massage table might just melt away and drop him on the floor. Connor, to make everything worse, looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“It’s not like we never win,” he says, with a small smile. “And it’s also not _my_ first year in the league. This may only be the second time I've done the forfeit as the captain, but it's not the second time I've, you know. Ever been to one.”

Mitch takes a breath and hopes it doesn’t sound as shaky as it feels. He’s never thought about it like that. Connor’s been in the show for a whole season already, of course he’s been to a forfeit before. It’s just...he loves Connor but he’s never thought about him like that, is having trouble wrapping his head around it. He’s always seemed a bit distant from all of this...stuff, whether he’s shy or hockeysexual or whatever, like maybe he’s just moulded plastic under his clothes like a Ken doll.

The thought that he mightn’t be as good and virtuous as Mitch has always thought is...well, it changes some things.

Connor keeps talking, apparently oblivious to Mitch’s inner turmoil or dawning curiosity or whatever this is. He talks with his hands, and Mitch can’t stop looking at them.

“Once it started to look like I was going to get the captaincy the guys decided to, uh, give me a crash course. To make sure I knew I was getting into and could make, like, an informed decision and stuff. So I pretty much went to every one after I came back last season.”

Oh. That’s. Well.

Connor shrugs. “It _is_ kind of like media, actually. You work out what they want to hear and give them just enough of it that you get to keep the rest to yourself.” He grins then, sudden and kind of sly. “I hear some teams are really into the innocent young captain thing. I've been practicing, you wanna see?”

The bark of involuntary laughter Mitch makes only sounds a little bit forced. He tries to sound like he doesn’t care either way when he says, “Yeah, go on.”

He’s not expecting Connor to lean forward until his cheek is up against the side of Mitch’s face, breath hot against his ear and arms bracketing his hips, boxing him in. Mitch is about to say something, or move, or...he’s not sure what, when Connor takes a deep, ragged, sobbing breath right in his ear.

“I’m just…” he says - no, _whines_ , “so grateful…for the opportunity…I’ll do anything.”

It’s dumb and cheesy and completely over the top, like one of those pornos where everyone calls each other baby and the girl starts moaning her head off before she’s even been touched, and still Mitch feels like he might have swallowed his tongue. It’s like…even when you know porn is stupid, it’s still hot, right? This is gut-punchingly hot, completely out of nowhere. It’s dizzying.

Connor’s face looks completely normal when he lifts his head, maybe a little pleased with himself, but when he gets a look at Mitch’s expression he lets out a startled, delighted laugh.

“Oh wow, your face. Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Mitch says, giving his shoulder a little shove. Connor doesn't move, still braced over Mitch on the massage table. His eyes are bright, intent, tracking over Mitch’s face and catching on his mouth. Mitch feels warm all over, must be blushing, but he lets Connor lean into his space and doesn’t pull back.

“No,” Connor agrees. “Surprised, though.”

He’s not the only one.

It’s like...Mitch flirted a bit with Connor in juniors, of course he did, but that didn’t really mean anything. It was cute when he got all flustered, and more importantly it made Stromer _crazy_ , which was hilarious. But then they got to know each other better and Connor grew out of the blushing and that’s just kind of how Mitch interacts with people, really, the flirty thing. Connor’s one of the better people he knows, for sure, but he’s not...you know. Hot.

Or he wasn’t, anyway.

Mitch takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re...you’re okay with the forfeit thing.”

“Yeah. I’m okay with it.”

“Okay.” Mitch nods, and then keeps nodding because it seems once he’s started he can’t stop. Nervous energy. Connor rakes a hand through his hair and Mitch watches the movement of his fingers because that’s a thing that is happening now, apparently. He feels like an idiot. A deeply confused idiot. “Sorry, I should’ve...like, you’re in the NHL, man, you can look after yourself. Sorry.”

“Marns,” Connor grins at him like he can’t help himself, eyes dancing. “ _You’re_ in the NHL.”

Mitch laughs and it’s like a dam breaking, somehow, awkwardness dissolving in a rush. It’s replaced with a wild, bright feeling that swells in his chest and Connor grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a little shake. “You’ve been in the NHL for a year,” he tells Connor, who shakes his head like he can't even believe it. Mitch can’t stop laughing. “You’re the fucking captain of an NHL team.”

“Oh my god, I know,” he giggles. “It’s crazy.”

“Speaking of which,” Mitch jerks his chin towards the door, and the locker room, “they’re waiting for you. And I should...go home, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Connor agrees. His giddy expression darkens, softens to a glint in his eyes as his gaze flicks over Mitch’s face, settling on his mouth again. Mitch licks his lips reflexively. “In a minute,” Connor says.

“Mo said no touching,” Mitch blurts out. His voice comes out a little uneven. Of course, Mo also said no talking and no interrupting, so Mo’s rules have kind of gone out the window at this point. Connor rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says, then he takes each of Mitch’s hands and presses them flat onto the massage table by his sides. “Stay,” he says softly, in a tone that makes the back of Mitch's neck tingle. “Now I’m the only one touching. Better?”

Like a strip club, Mitch thinks wildly, having never been to a strip club in his life. Better seems like an understatement, though, when Connor closes the gap between them and kisses him. It’s slow and thorough enough to make Mitch’s toes curl, exactly the sort of soft and gentle kiss he would have expected from Connor if he’d ever actually thought about it, only a lot more...well, expert. He’s kind of an amazing kisser. Mitch wonders if he’s practiced that too or if it’s just another thing Connor McDavid is naturally gifted at.

“Okay?” Connor says. The only response Mitch can manage is an embarrassingly soft sounding noise as he leans back in to be kissed again. He presses his hands harder against the table and Connor laughs so quietly that Mitch feels it more than hears it, vibrating right through him. “If I’d know this was all it took to shut you up I would have tried it years ago,” Connor says and smiles against his mouth. He slides both hands up Mitch's thighs, pushing his knees apart so he can move in closer between them. 

Mitch is a little bigger than the last time they saw each other – he's been working on that, coach's orders – but Connor's bigger than Mitch remembers him too, with a year's worth of pro-hockey muscle thickening his arms and thighs and broadening his chest. He's still not huge but he’s stopped looking as much of a gangly kid as he did in juniors. It makes Mitch really wish he hadn't committed to this no touching thing, but he has a feeling Connor's going to hold him to it and that’s…kind of okay too.

Then Connor grinds his hips into him and Mitch's hands jump off the table before he can stop himself.

“Fucking hell, Davo,” he gasps.

“Right, sorry,” Connor says, backing off a little. He puts a hand on Mitch's neck and presses his thumb under his chin, tipping his head back. “God, I could just...but rules are rules, right? Don't want to get you into trouble.”

Every team does things differently, but with the Leafs forfeits are for point scorers and the winning goalie only. Kissing is probably already pushing it; if he goes back into the room having obviously got off with their forfeiting captain, Mo is going to be _pissed_.

“Thanks,” Mitch says stupidly. His heart is hammering so hard he can feel his pulse in his fingertips, pressed so hard into the padded table top they're almost shaking. Connor laughs at him, which is probably justified, and then plants a wet kiss just south of his ear, which is definitely not playing fair. Mitch bites down hard on the needy sound he wants to make.

Maybe pissing off Mo would be worth it. Fuck. When did _Davo_ get hot?

“I think,” Connor says, and pauses to scrape his teeth over the angle of Mitch's jaw (it takes all of Mitch’s self-control to keep his hands still by his sides), “You should stay and watch.” Mitch has his eyes closed, but he still hears the smirk in his voice. “Maybe you'll learn something.”

“Fuck off,” says Mitch with a shaky laugh, and shoves him again. He feels hot all over at the thought of watching Connor's forfeit, now; it's not nervousness and worry anymore, but a weird and thrilling combination of embarrassment and _want_. This time Connor lets himself be shoved, moving back just enough so that Mitch can hop off the massage table. He doesn’t touch Mitch again, but he doesn’t back off either, just smiles and jerks his head at the door.

“Shall we?”

Mitch is nervous going back into the locker room, worried it’ll be blatantly obvious what they’ve been up to in the other room, but if his mouth looks a little red or his cheeks look a little flushed, nobody says anything. Mo looks right past him and focuses on Connor.

“Change of plans,” he says lightly. “Brownie's gonna go first.”

Mitch goes back to the stall with his name on it because, well, it seems as good a place to watch from as any. He feels kind of restless. His lips are tingling and he kind of wants to… _bite down_ on something. He settles for taking his tie off and twisting it round his fingers while Connor takes up a place on the pile of towels someone's repositioned at Brownie's feet.

Brownie bends down and gives him a light kiss on the mouth first, then quickly glances around at the other guys as if he's embarrassed about it. It's not really traditional to kiss a forfeiting captain, but it's not all that surprising either; Mitch knows enough Otters and ex-Otters to know what they're like. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t see the appeal, obviously. Connor smiles.

“You want my hand or my mouth?” he says in his soft voice, and Brownie flushes. So Mitch isn't the only one feeling weird about this whole unexpectedly hot Davo scenario.

“Uh,” he says. “Either's good.”

“So I’ve been told,” says Connor. He waggles his eyebrows just to get Brownie to laugh, and it works; Brownie's shoulders loosen and he leans forward a little, relaxed and grinning.

“If I use my hand you can kiss me some more, if you want,” Connor suggests then, and Brownie instantly goes all nervous again, shooting a look at Mo.

“Is that...allowed?”

Mo shrugs, looking amused but like he's trying not to embarrass Brownie by showing it too much. “You can do whatever you want,” he says. “I don't care, man.”

Naz, on Brownie's other side, doesn't care about embarrassing anyone. He rolls his eyes. “Could you get a move on? Some of us want to get off before dawn, yeah?” Mitch is inclined to agree. Not for the getting off part, which he’s not allowed to do anyway, but because the anticipation is making him feel twitchy. He just wants something to _happen_.

“Yeah, okay,” Brownie says quickly. Connor looks up at him, smiles, and then rises up on his knees so he can kiss him again, a polite little questioning brush of lips. At the same time his hands glide purposefully over Brownie's thighs, coming to rest at his waist. Mitch's breath catches a little, which is _stupid_ , he's on the other side of the _room_ , but when Brownie kisses back the twisting feeling in Mitch's chest only gets worse, because he knows what that feels like now. Connor's mouth opening warm and wet against his while his long-fingered hands tug Brownie's sweats down and...

Okay, Mitch doesn't know what _that_ part feels like.

He's not really sure what he expected a forfeit to be like, but it wasn't this; there's no sound in the room apart from the soft rasp of Brownie's breathing, and it's more like witnessing a private moment than like a porno or whatever. Mitch almost wishes it was more like porn, then maybe he wouldn't feel like he shouldn't be watching, wouldn't mind wanting to so much. He sits very still, thinks about how he should probably look away, and doesn't.

Brownie makes a high pitched, whiny sound when he comes and Connor kisses him through it as he pulses over his hand. It's messy and a bit awkward and kind of second-hand embarrassing, but oddly sweet, too. Freddie moves over and sits next to them and Brownie lists onto his shoulder, eyes half-shut.

“Thanks,” he says breathlessly. His face is flushed and splotchy, and he doesn't seem to be able to look at anyone. Connor smiles.

“You're welcome.”

“Fucking Canadians,” says Naz, who is as Canadian as either of them, and tosses Connor a towel. He cleans off his sticky hand and then touches Freddie's knee lightly, gives him a questioning look. Freddie shrugs.

“You don't need to kiss me,” he says, very dry, and Brownie coughs slightly and turns his face into Freddie's shoulder.

It turns out Connor sucks dick the same way he plays hockey, which is to say with a lot of enthusiastic focus and the total confidence that he is very, very good at it. Mitch remembers him saying the rest of the Oilers had given him a crash course in forfeiting and wonders exactly what that involved, whether Connor had approached giving a blowjob like a stick handling drill and just did it over and over until he was the best at it like he's the best at everything else. The idea makes him feel a bit lightheaded. 

Freddie doesn't make a lot of noise, but then he never does; there’s barely any sign he’s affected by the generationally talented mouth on his cock save for his slightly labored breathing and the big hand cupped carefully behind Connor’s head. Brownie stays where he is leant up against Freddie’s side and watches intently, teeth set in his lower lip.

The minimal response from Freddie means it's apparently a surprise when he comes; Connor chokes a little and pulls off too soon and half of it ends up on his lip and chin. He coughs and looks up at Freddie reprovingly, breathing hard and he looks...Mitch is kind of startled at how good it looks on him, flushed and a little angry and a little dirty, his mouth reddened and wet.

“Sorry,” Freddie says, not quite smiling in that way that's basically a grin from anyone else. He drags his thumb through the mess on Connor’s bottom lip and pushes it back into his mouth, which Connor allows, his eyes briefly fluttering closed. “Maybe time to lose the clothes before you get too messy, huh?” Freddie suggests.

Mitch isn’t sure he’s prepared for this, but he’s not supposed to interrupt, so he sits still and tries not to make any hysterical noises while Connor gets to his feet to undress and Mitch’s entire brain gets short-circuited by broad shoulders and muscular thighs. Get a fucking grip, he tells himself, it's not like you've never seen a naked hockey player before. But it's different like this, with everyone sitting around watching, waiting, with a shiny smudge still clinging to the corner of Connor's mouth.

By the time he’s naked, Freddie and Brownie have shuffled over and Matt’s taken their place, waiting politely with his hands clasped between his knees. Connor stands over him, looking a little uncertain for the first time.

“Hey,” Matt smiles disarmingly. Mitch finds it soothing and Matt’s not even looking at him; he can see Connor’s shoulders drop slightly as a little of the tension goes out of him. “You wanna come down here?”

Before Connor can respond, Freddie tosses Naz the bottle of lube and he catches it out of the air. He moves in close behind Connor and hands the bottle to him saying, “Why don't you get yourself ready for me while you work on Matt?” Then he cups a hand under Connor's chin and turns his head so he's looking right at Mitch. “Give your boy a proper show, eh?”

Mitch feels his face go scarlet. He's going to kill Naz later, he doesn’t care if he scored the game winner. Or he’ll send him a fruit basket, maybe. One of the two. Connor's expression is unreadable, but intense, like he's about to take a faceoff not – _god_ – finger himself while people watch, while _Mitch_ watches. This is all escalating very quickly. Mitch takes a quick breath, rough around the edges, and can't look away.

Connor gets down on his knees. He fumbles slightly with the lube, getting the cap open and squeezing a bit onto his fingers, and then glances up at Matt as if for reassurance. Matt’s still smiling, soft and encouraging, like he’s coaxing Connor through an unfamiliar drill or something. Connor takes a little time to get the angles right, trying to reach between his legs and get his head in the right position at the same time, Matt guiding him gently with a hand on his jaw. Only then he seems to realise he hasn’t got a free hand to actually get Matt’s sweats down with. He makes a frustrated noise, which makes Matt chuckle a little.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, efficiently tugging his waistband down out of the way and then carefully feeding his cock into Connor’s mouth with a small sigh.

As soon as his mouth is occupied, Connor seems to lose control of his hands, lubed up fingers slipping out of position like he’s too distracted to think about both at once. Mitch has never seen Connor look so uncoordinated in his life. 

It’s pretty masterfully done, actually. If he hadn’t seen Connor switch on the overwhelmed virgin act like turning on a tap earlier, he probably would have thought all this fumbling was real.

Freddie certainly seems to. “If he can’t, ah, walk and chew gum at the same time maybe you better give him a hand, Naz?” he suggests.

“Can you not mention chewing when he’s got Marty’s dick in his mouth?” Brownie grimaces.

Naz crouches down behind Connor and runs a hand down the length of his back, unexpectedly gentle. Then he ruins it by saying, “Yeah, Fred, the ‘can’t walk’ part comes later anyway.”

Connor makes a small sound of protest and pulls off. “I’ve got practice tomorrow,” he complains, and Naz chuckles and pauses with the lube to pat him on the ass.

“Don’t worry McJesus, I’ll make sure you can still skate.”

Connor frowns slightly at the nickname but then Naz reaches lower and his breath catches. Mitch can't see that part too well, but he can see when Naz flexes his wrist and slowly presses a finger deeper, and Connor drops his forehead onto Matt’s thigh with a shaky gasp. Mitch sucks in an involuntary breath and it’s unbearably loud in the hushed room.

“Enjoying the show, buddy?” says Naz, grinning. Connor laughs, which is just mean, and then Naz does something with his fingers that turns the laugh into a choked off moan, and Connor sinks his teeth into Matt’s thigh.

“Ouch,” Matt says mildly.

“Sorry,” Connor pants. “I’ll…oh, fuck.”

Naz keeps it slow, drawing it out. This is like torture, Mitch thinks desperately. Not for Connor, but for _Mitch_ , who has to sit there and keep his hands off his own dick while he’s watching all this play out, while he’s _hearing_ it. Naz doesn’t _have_ to make it good. He could be more efficient, focus more on stretching Connor open and less on wringing hurt little sounds out of him with each curl of his fingers, but he seems to get as much out of tormenting him as he’s going to get out of the actual sex. He catches Mitch’s eye and fucking _winks_ , because he’s an asshole. Mitch concentrates hard on not reacting; he’s clenching his fist so hard his nails might actually draw blood, but he thinks he manages to keep his face more or less blank. Burning hot, but blank.

“You’re doing great,” says Matt calmly, stroking Connor’s hair back from his forehead; he doesn’t seem all that put out by the distraction from Naz. Mitch tries not to squirm in his stall while his mind is assailed with all kinds of ideas – what Connor must be feeling right now, what Naz must be feeling with Connor hugging his fingers and arching against the hand Naz has spread on his lower back, how it must feel for Matt when Connor visibly composes himself and slides his lips back down onto Matt’s dick, trying to stay coordinated and fucking moaning with his mouth full anyway. Mitch tries not to think about Connor being fucked until he can’t walk because he already feels like his brain is melting as it is.

This second blowjob isn’t nearly as polished as the first, but that almost makes it better, although Mitch is kind of appalled at himself for thinking it. Connor’s messy and sloppy, and Mitch can _hear_ him from the other side of the room, the wet obscene noises of his mouth and the muffled cries Naz is drawing out of him. Matt’s a lot more responsive than Freddie, keeping up a low, steady stream of breathless encouragement and praise in a voice that's so gentle and familiar it makes Mitch feel weirdly exposed, like he’s the one on his knees. Matt tells Connor how good he is, how good he feels, his voice getting rougher and less coherent until he loses the thread of speech completely. He’s more considerate than Freddie, too, giving plenty of warning before he comes, but Connor doesn't pull back when he does. Maybe he’s not capable of being that coordinated any more, with Naz bent over behind him, fingers working slow and torturous.

It's kind of unbelievably hot, seeing someone who’s always perfectly in control of his body making such a mess of something as simple as swallowing. Mitch feels like he probably shouldn't think that, but he does anyway.

“That was great, thank you,” says Matt after a minute or so. Connor lets out this reluctant breathy noise as Naz takes his slick fingers away, but he straightens so Matt can get up and Mo can take his place. Naz is occupied with getting a condom on, and the crinkle of foil sounds as loud as a goal horn over Connor’s ragged breathing and the thundering of Mitch’s pulse in his own ears. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take.

“How're your knees?” Mo asks in the low, warm voice he normally uses for checking up on stressed rookies; it's not even directed at Mitch but it does make him feel a bit calmer, a conditioned response. Mo cups Connor's cheek with one hand. “You need to change position?”

Connor swallows. “I'm fine,” he says unevenly. Mo looks at him for a moment, considering, then leans back.

“C'mere,” he says, holding an arm out. Connor shuffles the towel padding forward with his knees until he's close enough to lean against Mo's chest, face tucked into the curve of his neck. It brings up the weirdest flurry of emotions in Mitch, fondness and envy and longing all messed up together with a hard kick of want that makes his throat feel tight.

“How're we doing, Mitchy?” says Mo teasingly, looking up at him. “All good?”

Mitch can't tell whether it's the agreement he made with Mo earlier or just sheer emotional and sensory overwhelm, but he feels like he couldn't answer in actual words if his life depended on it. His mouth makes a strangled sort of noise without his permission.

“I'd say that's a yes,” Connor says dryly. His voice sounds hoarse, but he’s smiling. Mitch is _not okay_. He doesn't get any more okay when Connor spreads his hand out over Mo's thigh and says, “So how do you want me?”

“Nah, it's fine.” Mo cards his fingers through Connor's hair. “Just focus on Naz.”

Naz takes that moment to kneel down behind them, pressing in close against Connor's back. It almost seems like Connor ignores him, except for the tiny shiver that probably only Mitch notices. He looks up at Mo and frowns slightly.

“Hey, this is winner's choice, right?” Mo grins. “I get to decide what I get out of you. Maybe I just want to cuddle?”

“Oh yeah, cuddling's the best,” Naz says with one hand on Connor's ass, lining his dick up with the other. “Is it too late to change my pick?” He pushes in without waiting for an answer and Connor swears softly, arms braced either side of Mo on the bench as Naz sandwiches him between them. “Okay?” Naz says. Mo runs a hand lightly up Connor's arm and rests it on the back of his neck.

“Good,” Connor pants. “Don't stop.”

He doesn't. Mitch's entire body feels oversensitised, simultaneously desperate for someone, _anyone_ , to touch him and also sure that if anyone does he'll just, like, burst into flames or pass out or something. Every thrust from Naz makes Connor let out a little breathy whimpering sound, and Mitch has to concentrate hard to not echo each one even though nobody's touching him at all. Naz says something in Connor's ear, and Mitch is trying so hard not to come in his pants and humiliate himself that he doesn't even hear it.

“I’m not usually,” Connor huffs out as Naz drives him forward into Mo’s chest, “a big fan…of losing.”

“No?” says Naz. He's only a little breathless which is deeply unfair because Mitch isn't even touching Connor and he feels like he's dying. “You seem like you’re enjoying it this time.”

“Well I don’t do it all that often,” Connor says. “It’s novel.” That makes Naz bark out a surprised laugh. A lot of people don’t realise Connor can be funny when he wants to be.

“Shame,” he grins, and Connor flushes even redder than he was already. Mitch does too. The voice is bad enough, but Connor can't see the look on Naz's _face_.

He thinks about what Connor said before, about working out what people want so you can give them enough to satisfy them without having to give up more of yourself than you want to. It's not a media technique Mitch has really mastered yet – his interviews tend to be stilted and nervous or so open that he acts like a complete dork and feels stupid about it afterwards. He likes being liked so much that he's always torn between not wanting to say the wrong thing and not wanting to seem boring or unfriendly. But Connor's exceptionally good at it, and this is no exception. 

He wonders if Naz and Mo know how obvious it is, Naz’s need to gleefully dominate a superstar, Mo’s compulsion to look after the overwhelmed kid captain. He wonders if they know Connor’s not being dominated or overwhelmed at all, that he’s getting off on giving them what they want as much as they are.

Then Naz gets right up against Connor’s ear and says, all matter of fact, “I want you to come. Can you do it like this or do you need Mo to help you?” and Mitch forgets about who’s got the upper hand here because it’s definitely not him. He feels personally victimised by everyone, by the way Naz’s fingers are digging into Connor’s hip, by Mo’s hand stroking soothingly through Connor’s hair, and especially by the way the next word comes out of Connor’s mouth, pitched low and broken in the middle.

“ _Please_.”

“Alright buddy, I got you,” Mo says, in exactly the voice he’s used on Mitch dozens of times after a rough practice session or a bad game, and Mitch may never be able to hear Mo encourage him again without also remembering the incredible noise that comes out of Connor a second later when Mo wraps a hand around his cock.

“I’m,” Connor pants, “I’m not gonna last.”

“Go for it,” says Naz with a groan. He grips Connor's hips tighter, pulling him back as he increases the pace. “I’m right behind you.”

Mo’s strokes are fast and rough, and Connor whines, leaning his forehead into the hollow of Mo’s throat and squeezing his eyes shut. Mitch kind of wants to do the same, he feels like he’s going to shake apart or collapse in on himself or something else dramatic and improbable, but he also doesn’t want to miss anything. So he’s watching when Connor tenses all over, arched between Mo and Naz, and comes completely silently, ending on a little broken sigh.

Naz wasn’t lying about being right behind him; it only takes another couple of thrusts before he’s pressing his face into Connor’s shoulder and swearing loudly, hips jerking against Connor’s ass. He slumps forward and Mo makes a little oof sound as nearly four hundred pounds of hockey player collapse into his arms, but he doesn’t protest, just lets them fall.

There’s a brief, still moment of aftermath where the quiet feels huge and tangible and Mitch thinks: oh shit, this changes everything. And then the moment breaks, and everyone else comes back to life, talking and chirping and finding washcloths for Connor and the other guys to clean up with, and it’s like nothing unusual ever even happened. Just hockey. Just locker room stuff.

Mitch looks down, draws a long steadying breath. He’s still got his tie wrapped around one hand, stretched out and pretty much ruined. He hadn't even realised he was still holding it.

“This was fun,” says Naz cheerfully, standing up. “You should consider losing more often.”

Connor snorts. “Sure, I’ll think about it.”

“Every time you sit down, probably,” Mo drawls. “You coming, Mitchy?”

“In a minute,” Mitch says, in a totally acceptable voice that is definitely not an embarrassing squeak. He’s going to have to sit here and think about baseball for a bit before he feels safe going out in public. The thought of baseball makes him remember that pre-draft day in Florida, being way too hot and draping himself all over Connor while they waited their turn to try batting and he thinks, okay, maybe not baseball.

Mo tilts his head to one side and then says, “Why don't you give Connor a ride back to his hotel? No point waiting for a taxi when there's cars right here.”

Mitch swallows and doesn't look anyone in the eye. “Uh, sure,” he says. “I can do that.”

He manages to pull himself together while Connor gets dressed. After a minute he thinks maybe he should...help? Or talk or something? But by the time he’s calm enough to look up, Connor’s straightening up from tying his shoes and there's no point. All the other guys are gone.

“Have you got a bag?” Mitch says, just for something to say, and is amazed that he sounds like a normal person and not a complete wreck.

“Nope,” Connor shrugs. “Ready to go when you are.” _He_ sounds relaxed, at least, if a little hoarse. That probably makes sense though.

“Cool, let’s…” Mitch stands up, stuffing his mangled tie in his pocket. His legs feel weird. Kind of tingly. He’s avoiding Connor’s eyes too much but he can’t seem to stop. “Let’s go then.”

He wants to ask all kinds of questions once they get into the car, like _how long have you been working up to this?_ and _was it like that with the Sabres?_ and _when the hell did you get hot?_ But he tries for lightness instead. “Hope your flight's not too early tomorrow,” he says, tapping his hands restlessly on the steering wheel. “You must be tired.”

Connor shifts a little in his seat and Mitch's face floods with heat.

“I mean we're all tired,” he says quickly. “Tired from hockey, not— I mean we just—”

Connor lets him babble for far too long, watching with a calm, amused look on his face. Mitch can see it out of the corner of his eye; he's having some trouble concentrating on the road.

“It's okay,” Connor says at last. “You can talk about it if you want.”

Mitch isn't sure he _can_ talk about it. Just thinking about it – and knowing Connor know he's thinking about it – makes him feel hot all over, half hard in his fucking suit pants. This was a whole lot easier back when he was the flirty one and Connor just acted pleasurably bewildered by the whole thing.

Connor's voice is like fingers running down his spine. “What was your favourite bit?”

“I don't— you can't— I'm _driving_ ,” Mitch splutters.

“Oh right, sorry,” Connor says, not sounding sorry at all. “Green light, by the way.”

He hits the accelerator a little too hard pulling away from the lights, makes the tires squeal. Connor looks like he wants to laugh.

The hotel has a parking garage, and Mitch pulls into it just in case there are any fans or reporters hanging around. It's late, but you never know. He feels as if everything that's happened tonight must be written all over his face, like anyone who saw him and Connor together right now would be able to read his mind. The last thing he wants is to have to sign an autograph (or, more realistically, watch Connor sign an autograph) with an erection like a fucking flagpole.

“Thanks for the ride,” Connor says serenely, unbuckling his seatbelt. Then he leans over the console and Mitch, on edge and startled, turns his head into a kiss. It's not a sweet little goodnight peck, either; Connor’s mouth is open and wet and his hand slides up Mitch's leg with obvious intent. Mitch is probably only imagining that he can still taste come in his mouth, but it's hot anyway, the vivid reminder of what he was doing earlier.

“So,” Connor says, low, only moving back far enough to look him in the eye. Mitch can feel the heat of his breath on his bottom lip. “You liked it, huh.” It isn't a question so Mitch doesn't bother answering, isn’t sure how much capacity for speech he has left at the moment any way. “Did you learn anything?”

Unexpected insights into his own sexuality? That Connor is more of an exhibitionist than he ever realised? That delayed gratification is both horrible and kind of mind-bendingly hot?

“I could probably...” He clears his throat. “Learn more?” Connor laughs delightedly and kisses him again, which seems encouraging, so when Mitch manages to connect his brain to his mouth again he says, “Have you got a roommate?”

The corner of Connor’s mouth twitches. “No.” He finds the inseam of Mitch’s pants, traces it slowly up his thigh with one finger. “You want to come up?”

Mitch’s answer tumbles out in a rush, like he’s been waiting to say it all night. “Yeah, yes, fuck, I--”

Connor kisses him quiet, light and sweet, and Mitch closes his eyes. Then Connor pats him cheerfully on the knee.

“Good,” he says softly. He opens the car door. “Guess you’d better score next time.”

And by the time Mitch opens his eyes again, he’s already gone.


End file.
